Joyeux Noel
by sunshine and lollipops
Summary: Jorah/Dany Modern AU. Christmas Eve at the Mormonts.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:** This little story was written in the pursuit of #GrandpaJeorscenesPLURAL – the new headcanon that I never knew I needed until I impulsively decided to keep Jeor Mormont alive in my Jade Sea fic (burn in hell, canon). This is my first modern AU for Jorah/Dany but ohmygodohmygod, they just work in every setting/time period, don't they? *heart eyes*

Also written as an ongoing (possibly never-ending) thank you to salzrand who has joined me in the #GrandpaJeor madness and whose Jorah/Dany fanart is serving as both my current inspiration and favorite obsession (like, I seriously want them as full-sized prints on my wall just so I can stare at the fluff all day). Consider this your #ChristmasinJuly gift. Merci beaucoup x 1000 :) :) :)

And much love/thanks to the rest of my fellow Jorah/Dany shippers who are just THE BEST. Hope you enjoy this one! Xo

_**Joyeux Noel **_

Every house has that place. You know the one. Where everybody gathers without really realizing it, quietly, inevitably, everyone doing their own thing, separately but together?

In Jorah and Daenerys Mormont's country house at No. 27 Jade Lane, it was the kitchen that claimed the honor. And specifically, the long oak table, currently decorated with a few holly-berry-mistletoe-and-poinsettia bouquets and covered in a dozen rolls of holiday wrapping paper, with green bows and red ribbons spilling towards the floor.

Daenerys was wrapping the last of the Christmas gifts before their guests started arriving for dinner. Her efforts took up half the table, with the bouquets pushed together at one end as a festive spray of color. The bouquets were extras from the flower shop which Daenerys co-owned down in the village—_Snapdragons & Butterflies_. Winter was the off-season for flowers but the weeks leading up to Christmas were still busy, and Daenerys and her co-owner/best-friend-since-high-school, Missandei, had been arranging pine cones, red roses, wintergreen and holly sprigs for six weeks.

After school let out for Christmas vacation, they even enlisted Jeorgianna's help, who was only too happy to play in her mother's flower shop all day…unless Jorah happened to stop by the shop on his way home from the university. In which case, Jeorgianna would abandon her mother with a quick hug and kiss and a simple, "I'm going with Papa."

Daenerys always grinned at her daughter's preference, never taking it personally. Jorah had that effect on his girls.

But in the kitchen, on Christmas Eve, seven-year-old Jeorgianna was sitting nearest her mother, kneeling on her chair, a box of crayons open beside her and a coloring book of flowery garden scenes beneath her hands. She was adding some white snowflakes to each scene, as the ground outside was still bare, despite the weather forecast, and she was dismally worried that Santa Claus wouldn't come without snow. She'd been fretting about it to Daenerys all morning.

_It'll work out, I promise…_Daenerys assured her, using one of Jorah's favorite lines to convince her it was so.

Four-year-old Aemon was further down, in the seat next to his father. Aemon was still working on the last of his lunch but he was distracted by the picture book on the table beside him. Aemon had recently discovered _Where the Wild Things Are_ and was fully engrossed by the adventures of Max and his monsters.

"Honey, are you finished with that?" Daenerys asked her son, eyeing his plate, which was down to two small bites of a grilled cheese sandwich.

"No," Aemon stated, shortly but pleasant enough. He didn't look up from the book, his legs swinging absently under the table and his eyes running over the lush jungle scenes painted with dark greens, blues and greys. He couldn't read yet but the pictures told the story. Max had just cast off for the island life, never to return, and Aemon's attention was fully captured. He didn't even bother to reach out and pretend that he was still eating.

"Oh, come on," Daenerys teased. "You've been picking at the last two bites for half an hour. We have guests coming over soon and I'd like to finish the lunch dishes _before _we start making dinner."

She reached for the plate but Aemon's hand suavely came over, with his wrist resting on the ceramic. He took the corner of sandwich, slowly picking it up and holding the bread in his hand for a long minute, while his eyes moved over the length and breadth of the colorful page.

Daenerys gave a long-suffering sigh, which elicited a low chuckle from Jorah, sitting at the end of the table, blue eyes peering over his reading glasses. He briefly looked up from the folded newspaper in his hands. He met her gaze briefly.

"He's your son," Jorah stated, giving her a little wink.

"Oh, is that how it goes?" she grumbled her reply, before giving up and returning to the gifts. A quick glance at the wall clock confirmed that she was running late. Missandei said that she and Torgo would be over at 4 and Jorah's father should be here any minute, but Daenerys had no clue on the rest. She'd meant to have it all done the night before but the Christmas party at Jorah's office went a little long and then they went out afterwards because she was in a frisky mood and wanted to go dancing.

It was impulsive but bound to happen. She was all dressed up in that red sheath dress and those silver dragon earrings that he'd bought her for their anniversary. And Jorah was wearing his navy suit with the grey vest…the one that she was helpless to resist.

She sent a text to Missandei from the car, asking if she wouldn't mind watching the kids a little longer.

_Missandei (8:35pm): Absolutely! Stay out as long as you like :) But how did you trick Jorah into taking you dancing?_

_Daenerys (8:35pm): I have no idea…but I'm not gonna ask him again in case he changes his mind ;) Did Aemon give you trouble going to bed?_

_Missandei (8:36pm): Oh, wait…I'm supposed to be watching _

_your__ kids? Jkjk – Aemon's asleep. Jeorgianna and I are watching "Up" again and crying our eyes out. We've gone through a box of tissues. Remind me again how this is a kid's movie? _

_Daenerys (8:37pm): Um the dog…maybe?_

_Missandei (8:37pm): Speaking of which…how's Operation Christmas Puppy coming along?_

_Daenerys (8:38pm): We're all set. Jorah's dad is picking him up from the shelter and bringing him over tomorrow before the party :)_

_Missandei (8:38pm): Have fun! *thumbs up*_

_Missandei (8:42pm)…Oh my god, this movie though *cry face* I have to call Torgo and tell him I love him. Like, right now._

They had _such _a good time. Daenerys couldn't remember the last time they'd been out—just the two of them. Not that she usually minded. It was moments like this at the kitchen table that she treasured the most, all of them together, doing nothing more than sharing the same space.

But dancing was fun too. Especially with a man who was almost a foot taller and had the strength to lift a girl _Dirty Dancing_ style. And, despite his protests, Jorah had a natural grace of movement that made him a smooth dance partner. She loved the feel of his arms around her, in any case, but there was something about a dance floor—the music, the lights, the energy, the little whispers at each other's ear. It was both transient and eternal, speaking of deeper connections, past and future lives, and she couldn't get enough of it.

Daenerys would definitely try to get him to go again after the holidays. He'd resist, of course, but she had ways of making her bear give in to her. Besides, she might not be up for it soon enough. While Jorah was filling the car with fuel last night, she'd slipped into the petrol station and bought a pregnancy test. She hadn't told him yet because she wasn't sure. The test was still sitting in her purse.

For now, she had to finish wrapping Missandei's gift—a tall, blue vase from the musty old antique store in London that Missie loved so much—_The Glorious Mysteries of Naath_. The glass was etched up and down on each side with butterflies in flight. The blue color of the glass was reminiscent of Caribbean Seas under summer skies. It was beautiful but incredibly delicate and as Daenerys lifted the snow-angel paper around its sides, deciding on how she would wrap the oddly-shaped thing, she made a face.

"There's a box in my office that might fit that vase," Jorah mentioned casually, looking up from his paper again, noticing her dilemma. He hinted, "The one that had speakers in it?"

"Oh!" Daenerys's features brightened. She knew exactly what he was talking about. Though the box never held any speakers—but rather, a travelling kennel for the puppy. They would need one when they went north to visit Jeor on Barra in April. "Yeah, that should work perfectly."

On her way to the office, she came around the far side of the kitchen table. She bent down to place a kiss against her husband's bearded cheek, with the loose waves of her silver-blonde hair spilling over her shoulder in the process. The peck was light and flirty and elicited a smile from the man. No, she'd have no trouble getting him to go dancing again.

Before she could retrieve the box, however, the doorbell rang.

"I'll get it!" Jeorgianna was off her knees and out of the room before the echo of the bell faded away. But she moved too fast, jarring the table as she jumped out of her seat. The blue vase teetered sideways, almost in slow motion.

With a yelp, Daenerys ran to catch it and Jorah stood quickly and reached out across the table, grasping the lip as she caught the side. Between them, Aemon didn't even lift his gaze from the picture of Max swinging in the trees with his monsters. But he said to both of them, in his usual dead-pan style, "Good catch."

Missandei's vase remained in one piece. Daenerys let out a deep sigh of relief and, as Jorah's face relaxed back into his familiar grin, they both started chuckling over the near miss.

"She's your daughter," Daenerys managed.

"Yours too, Daenerys," Jorah reminded her.

In the meantime, they heard the front door open. A draft of cold, December air swept through the front hall, finding its way to the kitchen, and followed immediately by Jeorgianna's excited, "Grandpa!"

"Well, look at you!" the old man's raspy voice was never warmer than with his grandchildren. She must have jumped into her grandfather's arms because his voice was muffled as he continued, "Ooof…how tall are you now, lass? You must have grown another inch while I wasn't watching."

"I'm taller than Uncle Tyrion now," she commented.

"Of course, you are," Jeor's voice held some good-natured pride. He added with a gruff laugh, "But who isn't?"

The little girl smiled at that, her cheeks dimpled with glee.

"Happy Christmas, Grandpa," she said.

He kissed her cheek, "Happy Christmas, Jeorgianna."

Hearing his grandfather's voice, Aemon had _finally_ found a good enough reason to set his book aside. With his usual calm demeanor, he shut the book, crawled down from his chair and left the kitchen to join his sister. Daenerys and Jorah followed, after Daenerys took a moment to put Missandei's vase on a higher shelf, far from harm. They made it to the foyer just in time to watch Jeor scoop Aemon up in his other arm, holding the two cubs aloft with little trouble.

Jeor Mormont wasn't called the Old Bear for no reason. He was well into his seventies but still had the same strength that defined him in his younger days, and same presence that kept his men in line while on the ground during Desert Storm. He was a career military commander, with the accolades to prove it, and only recently retired from a couple decades of instructing young, eager cadets in academies in both Glasgow and Edinburgh.

With his cadets, he was a grizzly bear, with a crusty reputation for honor and self-discipline, above all else. With his grandchildren, he was a teddy bear.

"Hi, Grandpa," Aemon tangled his little hands around his grandfather's neck.

"Happy Christmas, Aemon," Jeor shifted the boy's slight weight in his arms, bouncing him once before taking a good look at him. "You've grown too. Christ Almighty, I'm afraid I'll blink and you'll both be as tall as your mother and father."

"Aye, you and me both," Jorah grumbled from where he stood next to Daenerys, leaning against the door frame to the kitchen. But he gave his wife a sly glance, noting how far he had to glance down to catch her gaze and smirked briefly, "Although reaching Daenerys's height shouldn't be too much trouble for either of them."

Daenerys swatted his arm half-heartedly, meeting the teasing smirk with facetiously pursed lips. His words were accurate enough.

"Okay, I'll have to put you down because Grandpa still has some gifts to bring in," Jeor mentioned to the children, pressing more whiskered kisses against Jeorgianna and Aemon's cheeks before setting them down again. He looked up, "Jorah? Can you give me a hand, son?"

Jorah pushed himself off the door frame to join his father outside. They exchanged no "Happy Christmas" between them. It wasn't their way. Just a "how was the traffic?" and "heavy around Edinburgh but not bad after that."

But there was a time when they wouldn't have exchanged two words to each other. If that. Daenerys had been watching these men for years and she knew the affection between father and son was stronger than it had ever been.

She was glad, _so_ glad. Because it wasn't always this way.

There was some old tension between the two men from years ago. Jorah had been in the Persian Gulf too, but in the skies, younger, more impulsive, choosing the air force over the army to put even further distance between himself and his father. Not that they needed it. Jorah's mother, Jeor's wife, had been the glue that held them together and, after her death, the similarities in their personalities—the natural tendency towards morosity and silence—worked as a sharp, painful reminder of her absence.

After her death, Jeor buried himself in work and Jorah took off for foreign shores in a sort of self-imposed, at times nearly self-destructive, exile.

The rift lingered and widened. When Daenerys first met Jorah, she didn't even know his father was still living. She discovered the fact, accidently, about six months into their relationship when Barristan Selmy, an old acquaintance, stopped by their table at dinner and asked Jorah if his father was still living up north.

_Where else would he be?…_

It was only after Jeorgianna was born that Jeor and Jorah started talking again. A phone call to his father from the hospital, made at Daenerys's insistence, was the first time they'd spoke in more than a decade. And even then, it had been a tenuous peace, fragile, for the sake of the child. After Aemon came along, the iciness between them had thawed considerably and now only froze over occasionally and temporarily. Daenerys wished they'd bury it for good but she knew the stubbornness of her husband and her father-in-law. They were bears when it came to talking out their feelings, both of them.

And asking them to forget the past was about as easy as getting Jorah to take her dancing.

_Although…_she tipped her head slightly at the thought, conceding, _if I can manage the one…_

"Jeorgianna? Aemon, come back inside. We'll wait for them in the living room," Daenerys beckoned to her children, knowing at least one of the gifts that Jeor had brought with him and wanting to keep it a surprise until the very last moment.

They'd never had a dog in the house but it seemed like the right time. Jeorgianna had been dropping hints about wanting one for months and Aemon was up for whatever his sister approved. And the kids were old enough now to help out. Well, maybe. And even if they didn't, Jorah and Daenerys were far enough away from midnight feedings and hauling around diaper bags that it seemed like a new adventure might be fun.

As she sank down onto the couch cushions, pulling her legs up beneath her, Daenerys thought again on the pregnancy test that sat waiting in her purse. So maybe they had jumped the gun a little? The thought of taking care of both a baby and a puppy should be exhausting but—and maybe she was just caught up in the Christmas spirit or something—honestly, she was excited.

She was _thrilled. _For whatever came their way.

"Mama?" Jeorgianna sat down beside her, little fingers tugging on her sweater sleeve. Aemon sat down next to the tree, looking at the tags on the gifts beneath. He couldn't read yet, not really, but Jorah had taught him his name. Every time he saw a tag with a sweeping "A", his eyes lit up.

"Yeah, baby?" Daenerys asked, reaching out and tucking a wayward strand of Jeorgianna's silver-blonde hair back behind her ear.

"Look, it's snowing," the little girl pointed out the large picture windows in the living room, at the fat, white flakes fluttering down from the cloudy sky to cover the frozen ground beneath.

"See? And you were so worried we'd have no snow," Daenerys tut-tutted, pulling her in for a tight squeeze. "I told you—it all works out."

Soon, the front door opened again and with it, an unexpected sound. Her children looked at her, confused, surprised, but Daenerys just shrugged innocently, raising her eyebrows ever so slightly. Jeorgianna's eyes widened as she recognized the soft whimpers of a puppy. Daenerys's smile broadened widely as she watched her little girl figure out the source. Aemon too, jumped up from beneath the tree and brought his hands up to his face.

Like Father Christmas himself, snow-white beard and all, Jeor came in with a large wicker basket and laid it down before the children. Jorah, his smile a near match to Daenerys's, came in behind his father, bringing in an armful of more-conventionally wrapped gifts to add to those beneath the tree.

"Oh my gosh! Oh my gosh!" Jeorgianna couldn't hold back her excitement, leaving her mother's side to discover the occupant of the basket. Aemon joined her at their grandfather's side, where Jeor lifted a chocolate-colored puppy from the powder-blue blanket lining the basket and handed it over into Jeorgianna's waiting arms.

"One for you, lass," her grandfather said. "And…"

Daenerys eyebrows shot up a little further, looking towards Jorah immediately. She was expecting the chocolate lab. They'd picked it out a couple weeks ago. Jorah shook his head, as surprised as her, as his father pulled a fluffy, golden-colored puppy out next, handing it over to Aemon. "One for you too, little bear."

The children were smiling ear-to-ear, with those puppies gathered up in their arms, the wriggling, furry little things hugged close and licking at their new pint-sized masters.

Jeor threw an apologetic glance towards his daughter-in-law. His voice turned contrite in explanation, "The little things were sharing a kennel at the shelter and were sleeping when I got there, curled up with their noses resting on the other's paws. They told me they'd taken to each other immediately and I couldn't…but I'll take the gold one home with me, if you think it's too much to take on?"

"I…," Daenerys hadn't considered, hadn't thought, her eyes flickering from Jeor back to Jorah. "What do you think?"

"I think…," he paused briefly, as Jeorgianna and Aemon had set the puppies down on the rug and now watched them roll and play between them, all floppy ears and unsteady steps. The kids were in love with them already. He finished with a lift of his shoulders, saying only, "The more the merrier."

And then he grinned at Daenerys, caught up in the Christmas spirit as well, and she wondered briefly if he truly meant it and if he would change his mind once he knew the "more" in this case might end up being two puppies…and a new baby.

_Will you regret your words then?_

Looking at him, meeting those same blue eyes that she'd met a hundred thousand times before and seeing his soft gaze, expression filled with as much love and tender affection as on the day they first met, she knew the answer to that question well enough.

No. Jorah would never regret any of it. And neither would she.

_**A/N:**_ I'm more of an Akita girl myself but nothing is cuter than lab/retriever puppies. So. Adorbs. Also…just FYI - I could probably be tricked into expanding this by another 1-2 chapters. Feel free to let me know if you want to see more :)


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note:** I've fallen out of the habit of posting fics on ffnet because of _reasons_ \- pretty much moved completely to AO3 at this point and honestly, I think this will be my last set of updates on this site...but feel free to come over to AO3. We have cookies (and lots more Jorleesi fics).

But thought I'd post Chs. 2 & 3 over here since Ch. 1 would be lonely without them :) Merry Christmas, all. Xo

**Chapter 2**

Some of their guests lingered after dinner, partaking in some red wine and hot cider as they all sat around in the living room, sinking onto plush furniture or on throw pillows scattered on the carpeted floor, chit-chatting about little things.

Jorah's father was there, of course, as he would be staying over through Boxing Day. And Torgo and Missie always stayed late as they lived nearby, but Tyrion stayed for a while too. He'd had a rough couple weeks at work and was enjoying the quiet domesticity of the Mormont household.

"None of that Lannister judgment and casual back-stabbing that always gives Christmas just an extra bit of sparkle," he snarked to Daenerys earlier in the night. She laughed at his tone, glad he could find humor in his family's legendary squabbles. If Tywin Lannister was her father _and _her boss, she wasn't sure she'd be able to joke about it quite as well.

Growing up an orphan had its advantages, she supposed. Although it's not something she would wish on her children. Not for a moment.

"Play us some carols, Jorah, would you?" Missie asked, from her spot at one end of the couch. Torgo was sitting right beside her, relaxed, his right arm outstretched and resting on the back of the sofa behind her.

Missie was leaning forward, elbows balanced on her knees and hands raised and tangled with string, as she was playing cat's cradle with Jeorgianna. They were using a piece of packaging string and passed it back and forth between their hands, with Missie teaching Jeorgianna all the different shapes she could make—the manger, candles, diamonds.

Jeorgianna's chocolate-colored puppy was mulling around at the little girl's feet, furry paws batting at crumpled pieces of discarded wrapping paper and the silver and gold ribbons that Daenerys had used to tie up Missie's blue vase.

Missie took a moment to reach over Torgo and grab her wine glass from the coffee table, raising it up in Jorah's direction as a sort of cheers-and-please gesture, her eyes flickering to Jeor as well. "And get your dad to sing too."

"I'm not sure if I've had enough to drink for that," Jorah answered dryly. His dwindling whiskey glass said otherwise. Daenerys, perched on the overstuffed arm of his chair, fingers running through his hair casually, added her voice to the chorus.

"C'mon, the Mormont boys owe us a song," she spoke at his ear, nuzzling her head against his greying temple briefly. "We won't take no for an answer."

"Sing, Papa," Aemon echoed his mother from the foot of Jorah's chair, sitting cross-legged on the carpet, petting the golden puppy in his lap from head to tail, very gently, as the little thing had fallen asleep after a solid evening of running around and exploring his new home.

"Did you fix the string on that mandolin in the den?" Jeor asked his son.

"Aye, it should be on top of the bookshelf," Jorah replied as he relented, reaching behind his chair. His guitar was a permanent fixture against the living room wall, as Daenerys liked music in the house and Jorah was happy to accommodate. While Jorah brought the guitar to his lap, Jeor rose from his chair and went to retrieve the mandolin.

Barra was a beautiful place to grow up, Jorah had told her that many times, but it wasn't exactly a metropolitan hive of activity. Nor even comparable to a small hamlet on the mainland. Island life was just different. Magical, sure, in its way. The tourist industry didn't spring from nothing. But after the summer months, when the mainlanders went home for the winter, the islands returned to their most natural state. Where life was lonely, wind-swept, and sometimes very hard.

And filled with time…

The Island had nothing but time, and from time springs music. Daenerys had never encountered music like she did when Jorah first took her home to Barra, when she sat in Jeor Mormont's cozy kitchen with baby Jeorgianna bouncing on her knees and heard those two men sing together for the first time.

_Shady grove, my little love. Shady grove, I know._

Jorah had inherited his father's natural surliness, but also his voice. And the two of them singing together could charm any fairy to give up a life of ill bargains or any selkie to leave her sea bath and risk a walk along the shore to listen.

"So, what do we want to hear?" Jorah asked the group, but directed his words at Aemon, reaching down and mussing his son's already tousled hair.

"Silent Night," Aemon answered automatically. It was his favorite. Simple melody, straightforward lyrics. No frills. No fuss. That was Aemon's style. It would still be his favorite carol even when he was a very old man.

"_Stille Nacht, heilige Nacht_," Tyrion echoed cleverly, having spent the last two weeks brokering negotiations between two German firms.

He was sitting on the floor, with his short legs stretched out in front of him, back braced against the sofa, his wine glass cradled in his lap with two hands. He'd tipped his head back against the couch cushions and had his eyes closed, just resting and listening, enjoying a night without contentious mergers and general family drama.

The others had no complaints with the choice. So when Jeor returned from the den, Jorah was already picking out the first notes with gentle, unhurried plucks of the strings.

"Jeorgianna, you want to start us off?" Jeor encouraged his granddaughter. He spent a moment tuning the mandolin, bringing the sound hole closer to his ear as his fingers worked at the pegs. He gestured her over with a motion of his white-haired head.

Missie slipped the cat's cradle from Jeorgianna's smaller hands by looping the string beneath, ending on a diamond shape and laying the string on her knees, for later. The chocolate puppy padded along behind the little girl as she went to Jeor's side.

She brushed her fingers over the strings of her grandfather's instrument, watching his still nimble fingers take up the familiar melody. Jorah strummed the first chords, and Jeorgianna's voice was clear and sweet as she led them into the first verse:

"Silent night, holy night  
all is calm, all is bright…"

Jorah and Jeor's voices came in behind hers, in practiced, perfect harmony.

* * *

When they reached the end of the carols, Aemon was fast asleep, using his father's foot as a pillow and Jeorgianna was leaning against her grandfather's side in a way that betrayed her eyes wouldn't be staying open much longer.

"One more song?" she tried.

"If we sing one more song, sweetheart, we might be singing to Santa Claus," Jorah warned her. "And you know how he feels about children staying awake past their bedtimes?"

"Yeah…," Jeorgianna agreed, though a little sullenly, sliding off her grandfather's lap as he lifted the mandolin above her head, freeing her. She muttered, "I guess."

"I got them," Jorah assured Daenerys, seeing her stir on the chair arm beside him. He set the guitar aside and bent to scoop up the sleepy boy at his feet. The gold-colored puppy had moved over to its brother, where both were now curled up at the base of the Christmas tree, beneath green bows, silver tinsel and red-mirrored ornaments, dozing.

"Are you sure?" Daenerys teased her husband. "There's two of them and only one of you."

"I can conquer two children," he told her, bending down to press a kiss to her forehead, before teasing back, with a little wink, "Three, and I'd be out of luck."

It was just a joke, made at his own expense. But Daenerys felt her smile falter just a little, a slight shadow of doubt passing over her features that Jorah missed completely, as he was shifting Aemon in his arms and motioning for Jeorgianna to make her way upstairs.

But Jeor didn't miss it, and he wondered at the change in his daughter-in-law's expression, no matter how quickly she recovered from it.

As Jorah put the children to bed, Daenerys asked the others if they were ready for some coffee. She had a pot brewing and offered to fetch them all a mug. Jeor put his mandolin on the ottoman in front of his chair and rose to give her a hand.

There were nods all around, except for Tyrion who smirked at her question and said, "Well, we could pretend that it'll be just coffee in my mug but I don't see the point, do you?"

"We should probably discuss an intervention at some point, Tyrion," Missie mentioned evenly, half-seriously, as she settled against Torgo, cheek against his chest, her hand drifting across his body to tuck in around his other side snugly. Torgo brought his arm down from the back of the sofa to wrap around her shoulder and pull her a little closer still.

"You do seem to be drinking more these days, my friend," Torgo added.

"Sure," Tyrion shrugged at them both, used to hearing it. He gave them his conditions, "But after the holidays. You'll teach me how _not _to drink and I'll teach Torgo how to tell a dirty joke. How's that sound?"

Torgo took the insult in stride, not easily ruffled. And Missandei just smiled, unfazed by Tyrion's bluster. Their chiding came from a place of love and Tyrion knew it. He might even take it under advisement. Soon.

But not tonight.

"You know what? Make mine an eggnog," Tyrion called out after Daenerys and Jeor. "And don't skimp on the Christmas cheer, Commander, if you please…"

* * *

As Jeor followed Daenerys into the kitchen, he mentioned proudly, "That daughter of yours has a lovely wee voice."

"Aye…," Daenerys grinned on the word, which she couldn't help but pick up, after years of living with a Scotsman. She gave her father-in-law a knowing glance, "Wonder where she gets that from?"

"Reminds me of her grandmother," Jeor clarified his meaning, his tone turning a little wistful. "Julia had a voice that could rival angels. Far better than mine. Jorah's talent comes from her."

Daenerys's expression softened. Neither Jeor, nor Jorah, talked much about Julia—Jeor's wife and Jorah's mother. And when they did, Daenerys was always hesitant to ask further questions, as she was worried she might scare either one of them off sharing at all, as Julia's ghost continued to cast a long shadow, even many decades after her early, unexpected death.

But she loved Jeor dearly, and added, "It comes from you too."

"Maybe," Jeor conceded warmly, never one to disagree with Daenerys, who he loved as well as any trueborn daughter.

While Daenerys deposited Missie and Torgo's empty wine glasses in the sink, Jeor brought down a couple mugs from the cupboards, setting them on the countertop. He then moved to the fridge, to fetch Tyrion's eggnog.

_And don't skimp on the Christmas cheer, Commander, if you please…_

"Will Tyrion want whiskey or rum in this, do you think?" Jeor wondered, as he brought the jug of eggnog off the middle shelf, unscrewing its top with a smooth twist.

"Either. Or both?" Daenerys gave a little laugh. "He's certainly not picky."

The coffeemaker was done, having dripped the last of its dark roast through the filter, and she turned to grab the pot, just as Jeor was crossing the floor with that jug of eggnog. And the little laugh suddenly died on her face, as the strong smell of that milk and egg mixture hit her nostrils at just the wrong moment and in _just_ the wrong way.

With a muted groan, Daenerys abandoned the coffee, rushing to the kitchen sink, her stomach heaving unevenly.

It came upon her so fast, she didn't have time to consider or…explain. She had no time to say anything but knew Jeor would be concerned by her actions. She couldn't help it, quite sure she was going to be sick.

She hovered over the sink for a moment, her fingers resting on the cold metal, seeking relief. She splashed some cold water on her face, which was suddenly flush. Her hand lingered on the faucet for a moment before she reached blindly for a dishcloth to wipe her face. As she brought the wet cloth to rest at her forehead, her eyes closed briefly and she felt a strong hand come to rest on her back.

"Are you all right, lass?" Jeor murmured, that hand stroking her upper shoulders lightly.

She nodded, unable to manage a word. Not yet. Her eyes remained closed, waiting for the unexpected wave of nausea to pass. And when it finally did, she found herself letting out a long breath, her white knuckles finally unclenching from the side of the kitchen sink.

Maybe it was the cider. Or maybe she'd caught the flu? It was the time of year for it. But the way the nausea came and went so swiftly, and with that pregnancy test still sitting unopened in her purse, waiting to confirm the truth, she had a nagging feeling it wasn't the flu at all.

Jeor didn't ask. He knew better. He just waited, looking at her curiously. He wasn't a stupid man and he'd noticed the way she was looking at Jorah when he said those silly, throwaway words.

_Three, and I'd be out of luck…_

"You're pregnant," he guessed, bluntly.

"I don't know. Not for sure," she answered honestly, biting her lip just slightly. Though with every minute that passed, she felt more confident that it was true. She closed her eyes briefly, conceding, "Probably. But I haven't told Jorah yet…I'm…we didn't plan this and…"

Her tone must have been colored in competing shades of worry and unease, for Jeor's expression changed quickly, from soft joy to concern for her in under a few seconds. His hand went up to his beard as he listened to her rambling, fiddling with the ends. She must know she had nothing to worry about?

"Lass…," he began but Daenerys jumped in again.

"We never talked about having a third child and I know that Jorah likes things as they are and…"

"Daenerys," Jeor chuckled at her, knowing she was twisting herself up over _nothing_. "If it's true, are you happy?"

She couldn't help but nod, her hands spreading over her abdomen instinctively, protectively, already convinced that a child grew within her. A child that she would love as fiercely as her other children.

"My son would drain the oceans for you. He'd level mountains," Jeor answered with all the confidence she currently lacked. He squeezed her shoulder just slightly, "If you're worried that Jorah won't welcome this news with the most unreserved joy, you're mistaken."

"But what if…"

"Tell him, lass. You'll see."


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

"Tyrion stayed a while longer than usual, didn't he?" Jorah mentioned from the bedroom.

He was sitting on his side of the bed, undoing the clasp on his watch. As the thick band came loose, he set it on the cherry nightstand, next to the cufflinks he'd thrown there last night, after they returned home from dancing.

A wide grin came to his features as he thought on the night before, and spinning Daenerys around a dance floor in that red dress of hers. It had been a while. But he enjoyed himself, much more than he thought he would.

His wife was a firefly, pulling him into a teeming mass of other dancers, where the lights and music pulsed with an energy that was infectious. As was Daenerys's mood, frisky and flirty and whispering sweet nothings in his ear that he returned with pleasure. When they got home, that red dress had come off as soon as they reached the bedroom and still lay discarded over by the wardrobe on the far side, in a heap with his vest and suit jacket.

He grinned at that pile of clothes too.

Two late nights in a row and he was exhausted, about ready to collapse on the pillows. But he wasn't dressed for bed quite yet, as Daenerys had taken the bathroom first.

"His father's giving him a hard time again," Daenerys said through the half-opened door, her voice distorted by the sound of a toothbrush in her mouth.

He heard her turn on the faucet and spit the remaining mint paste into the sink. She continued, "And Missie said they still haven't finalized the deal with the Tyrells. Cersei refuses to work with Loras and Margaery is having second-thoughts about the whole thing. Which means her grandmother is likely having second-thoughts too…"

"And Tywin blames Tyrion," Jorah guessed. It wasn't really a question. They'd known Tyrion for over a decade. His story was a predictable one. A sad one too—of fathers who failed to love their sons enough.

"Exactly," Daenerys rinsed the toothbrush off under the faucet and Jorah heard her open the medicine cabinet to put it away.

"Fathers and sons," Jorah mumbled the words in a regretful tone, not meaning for Daenerys to hear. His situation with Jeor was far different than Tyrion and Tywin and in the last few years, they'd mended fences in a way that felt like it would last. Jeor was currently sleeping in their guest room, after all. But still…Jorah knew something about not measuring up to a father's expectations.

He ran a hand through his hair, wondering briefly if history would be doomed to repeat itself.

"Just because some fathers and some sons have their issues does _not _mean that you and Aemon will be the same," Daenerys seemed to read his mind, her head poking out the bathroom door briefly to give him a firm look that said she didn't want to see him fret about it.

Jorah smiled at her, not so much because of what she said or the grim, commiserating look on her sweet face. He was only half-convinced by her words, honestly, knowing that the future was unknowable.

But she was _so _beautiful, and tonight, especially so. Maybe it was their impulsive night of dancing or Christmas or something else. But his breath nearly caught on the mere sight of her, just as it had all those years ago, when he walked into a flower shop in Paris and ordered half a dozen roses from the friendly girl with silver-blonde hair working the counter.

"God, you're gorgeous. Have I told you that lately?" he wondered.

"A couple times," she replied, nearly blushing.

His compliments always took her by surprise, the depth of feeling in his voice as well. His love for her was a constant, since the first day they met. And it made her brave and filled her with a lightness that came from being loved and loving someone in return. Someone who would love her come what may…

He beckoned her closer and she was tempted to just go to him then. But she wasn't quite finished yet. She had one last thing to do. Something she'd been putting off all day. Her heart fluttered in anticipation. And she gave him a cheeky grin and shake of her head, before disappearing again.

"What time is it?" she asked a few minutes later, from behind the door.

"Nearly midnight," Jorah replied, casting a quick glance to the clock by the bed.

The digital numbers read _11:58. _And Jeorgianna and Aemon would likely be up before six, perhaps earlier, downstairs and picking through the pile of gifts under the tree, with Jorah's early-rising father encouraging the children, chuckling at their excitement, all the while grinning like a child himself.

Sleep beckoned more insistently and Jorah undid the buttons on his shirt sleeves, before moving to the front.

"Nearly Christmas, then." Daenerys's voice drifted in once more.

It wasn't a question, but still he answered her, "Yes, I suppose."

When she appeared again, she was in her pajamas, a lace-trimmed cami and flannel bottoms, with her hair undone and loose around her shoulders. She had something held behind her back and crossed the room rather slowly, her eyes meeting his and holding on. There was an intense look in her eyes that took him aback and he forgot all about the buttons on his shirt, though he'd gone through half of them already, the generous covering of golden hair on his chest fully visible to the woman who most liked to run her hands through it.

"What is it?" he wondered, looking up at her.

"I have a Christmas present for you," she answered, her voice falling a little low. She sank down on the mattress beside him, their thighs touching. One hand emerged from behind her back to reach up and claim the side of his face, her fingers trailing a usual path, with her thumb passing over his lips before the hand fell away, coming back to rest in her lap. She looked down at that hand, admitting, "Though I'm not sure you'll like it."

She sounded slightly ominous, enough that it piqued his curiosity. As did whatever she was holding out of sight. He tipped her chin up, bringing her gaze back to meet his.

"Whatever it is, Daenerys…," he promised, with no idle words. "I'm sure I'll love it."

"Don't be so certain," she muttered and found herself reaching for his hand, taking it, keeping it. He gave it willingly, but wondered at the solemnness of the gesture. He tipped his head at her, thoroughly confused by her response.

She wasn't usually so cagey…or so hesitant. She turned his palm upwards, running her first finger over the lines she found there.

"Don't freak out, okay?" she made him promise.

"Daenerys…?"

She sighed and finally gave up the contents of her other hand. It was a semi-cylindrical length of plastic. It only took him a moment to figure out that he was holding a pregnancy test.

And one that read positive.

Beside them, on the nightstand, the clock flipped to _12:00._

His eyes went a little wider and he looked at his wife for confirmation. He knew she wouldn't joke about something like this but…

"You're sure?" he said the words, stupidly.

"I am," she nodded, holding her breath.

But even before she answered him, his arm was travelling around her shoulders, slipping down to her waist as he tugged her closer, pressing a long, lingering kiss against her hair. The gesture itself was telling but still, she murmured, "I know we hadn't talked about…"

He didn't let her finish before gently turning her chin again and claiming her lips, silencing her lingering doubts with a kiss. If she was hesitant because she thought he would be unhappy…oh, his wife could be a silly woman sometimes.

That kiss lasted for some time, slow and deep and soft at the edges. Her mouth opened beneath his and he felt a flooding warmth coil through his body. Her fingers undid the last of his shirt buttons, so she was free to let her hands wander along his ribs and chest, before twining up around his neck. With a strong grip, he tipped her back on the quilts of their bed, lying down beside her, while their tongues played together for some time.

"Happy Christmas, Daenerys," Jorah murmured as he pulled back, hovering just above her.

"Happy Christmas, Jorah," she replied, somewhat breathlessly, her fingers drifting back to his face again, to trace his familiar features. Features that were dearer to her than any others in the world, save the two children in whose faces they were reflected. And mixed with her own.

_Three. You will have three children, Daenerys._

Jorah bent again, gently touching his nose to hers, nuzzling gently and brushing them by each other twice, before stealing one more kiss from her lips. This one as light as the feathery snow that continued falling outside in the cold, silent night.

His kisses then trailed from her lips down her throat and collarbone, between her breasts, further, until he reached the spot where their youngest child was taking root and growing, even now. Slipping his fingers under the lacy hem of her cami, he pushed the fabric up on her stomach just a few inches, before dropping another kiss against the bare skin beneath.

Her hands were playing in his hair, as habit, but her vision was blurred, flooded with tears as she heard him whisper there, in a deep, father's tone that spoke in a thousand shades of love and affection, "Happy Christmas, baby."


End file.
